


But Satisfaction Brought It Back

by lithiumAlchemist



Series: Bell the Prince [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Actual Plot (surprise), Catboys, Conversations about Canon, Conversations on consent, Doppelbanging, Getting Back Together, HTML/CSS heavy - not kindle or download friendly, I promise its more serious and funnier than it sounds, Illustrated (homestuck-typical image edits), Increasingly metafictional smut, Jake english cheats ascension, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Dialectics, Trans Dirk Strider, Trans Male Character, Ultimate!DirkJake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25961059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithiumAlchemist/pseuds/lithiumAlchemist
Summary: Jake and Ultimate Dirk try alongdistance relationship.As far as Canon is concerned, this could only ever result in a disaster of catastrophic proportions.
Relationships: Jake English/Brain Ghost Dirk Strider, Jake English/Brain Ghost Dirk Strider/Ultimate Dirk Strider, Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: Bell the Prince [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845508
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94





	1. Atwixt

**Author's Note:**

> oh boys here we go again. So word of warning, this won't make a lick of sense if you haven't read the first part. It barely stands on its own two legs. if the premise interests you, **check out[ Sympathy for Mr.Whiskers ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035052) first then get back here when you're done!**

The door to your office proclaims itself shut with a click and a flick of your wrist. You spin the ring of keys on the length of your forefinger for a loop or two, absolutely chuffed, but careful to not seem too eager, and quickly stuff it into your breast pocket. 

When you turn, Dirk is waiting for you, perched atop your executive seat. 

" _Meowdy._ " Brain Ghost Dirk tuts matter-of-factly, sprawling his back on the ornate maroon leather. The enormity of the thing engulfs him. "How're ya doin', bub?"

His delivery is an impeccable deadpan. He kicks his heels up the table, and throws his hands around the armrests like he owns the place. The cowboy bit isn't as nonsensical as it seems— today, he's fitted with a rawhide hat and spurred boots. His sawdust-colored tail coils languidly by his side, almost as if it were happy to see you, or perhaps like it intends to signal a natural hunter's interest in your juicy and supple jugular. You're not quite sure, when it comes to feline body language.

"Morning roundup has been positively spiffing, erm, _pardner!"_

The phantom cracks a sideways smirk when you set pace towards him, shifting on the recliner. Dirk couldn't give a _rat's ass_ about your less-than-stellar performance, not when his attention is entirely deposited elsewhere. 

While barely noticeable from afar, the rumble that arises from his hips becomes startlingly evident in nature the moment you breach the short distance keeping your bodies apart. His legs shake at random intervals, tightly locked around one another to keep shivers to a minimum. Though this sort of jitter could pass as nothing but a nervous tick in the correct circumstances, when bathed in the cynical light of day and locked in a quiet room boasting only two occupants, he looks more than a little suspect. It's the hands, you think, the obvious intensity in which he squeezes and releases his tight grip on the armrests, like he's battling to hold something back. 

Which to be perfectly clear, he is. "It's not too terribly strong, is it?"

"Nah. Just right." he sighs, following your movement around the edge of the rosewood table, a little puzzled about where you're planning to go. You're fairly certain he expected you to take one of the high backed guest chairs at the forefront and toy around for a spell, not to advance directly over him.

This leaves Dirk awfully uncertain of where to place his legs, hesitating to move until you break his pose and gracelessly yank the right one well above your head, sliding to straddle the bottom of the extravagantly cushioned leg rest. This was a good purchase, you think, even if it was just another pricey catalogue item acquired on a whim and quickly forgotten about for months on record. But then again… most of the gewgaws and gizmos cluttering up every nook and cranny of your humongous mansion can fit that same exact description.

This position puts you close enough that you could almost hump him. Or more accurately, _it would have, if he weren't friggin incorporeal._

It's really a gods-damned shame, that since your little brothel escapade Dirk had steadily regressed in terms of... grabbable materiality. He's still very visible and fairly well put-together, but your touch finds no purchase and his ephemeral kisses blow right past your skin. Sometimes you think you might’ve dreamed up the whole shebang, a delusion borne out of a cocktail of pure intoxication and loneliness and a dire case of hyperactive imagination, but then the genuine article interjects to remind you he's still here to vow and testify. 

You've made an effort to keep off the sauce since. 

Two days, five hours, forty minutes. (Not counting the time you've spent asleep today) You would like to believe if there's even the _slightest_ chance he's just as real as you are sober, then hell, it's worth an honest shot. Funny things have happened before and they may as well happen again! But in the _meantime,_ both of you have made a valiant effort to navigate your... cosmically unfortunate touch restrictions, but you believe you're doing pretty friggin' fine thus far. Sort of. 

You're still getting the hang of the whole wordsy-thought-magic-y thing, partly because it's exhaustive to do it, and partly because what you're doing seems so entirely unlike every kind of professor-X adjacent type of telekinesis you've witnessed before, there's no baseline to turn to. What are the rules? The limits? The risks? Surely, you're not supposed to figure out all that difficult stuff on your own! Imagine the dangers. You had a hell of a dizzy spell in your comedown from the other night's festivities, for your recklessness. But this is no time nor place to exposit.

You will Dirk's right leg to drop from where it floats in the air, and he directs a throaty _'Tsk'_ at you when it winds up plummeting abruptly, forcing him to reposition in his magnanimous seat. You get the sense he simply delights in the idea of manspreading on it, as though it conveys power. Dirk savours every second he can get feeling like a bigshot.

"No offense, but you really oughta work on your technique, dude." 

"Sorry! Swear it was just a slip of the mind, but… Out of curiosity. Weren't you the one to pitch the rough and tough fondling?"

"We _all_ like a good ol' ragdolling now and then." he stutters, attempting to regain his earlier confidence. 

Cloaked behind dark lenses, Dirk's gaze surreptitiously tracks your focus on his crotch, while you busy yourself by ordering his zipper to come undone with a sharp tug. The motion is enough to make him shiver. "But it would be pretty useful for you to practice, is the thing. Figure out how to set a pace and manage intensity and shit like that, _ah, fuck,"_

The kerfuffle to drag his pants down to his knees dislodges the vibrator you had stuck in him earlier. Free from the constraints of unbelievably tight-fitting jeans, the bottom of the pink toy juts out from under the stretchy cotton of his underwear, as it finds enough wiggle room to breathe and begin plunging inside him with all the arrhythmic stiffness of a wind-up automaton constructed solely to mate. His legs jerk to contract nigh instinctively, and you have to pry his knees apart to get a good assessment of the situation, voyeuristically interested in the wet bulge twisting between his thighs. There’s a certain kind of satisfaction involved in having Dirk caught up in preposterously embarrassing situations that is impossible to divorce from de facto sexual gratification. It's a simple man's joy, really, seeing him stripped of the larger-than-life status you bestowed upon him in your youth. There’s no greater delight than being capable of pulling him apart, unearthing the ordinary ovum of humanity inside, the part of him that’s still vulnerable, dirty, and desperate, _just like you._

Alright. No more of this unbearable idiocy. I've had enough. 

You're startled off backwards like you've just stuck your big thumb in a power socket, crashing the dead center of your spine hard against the edge of the table. _Ouch!_ Fuck, it's _Dirk._

You will stop

Ack, this is bound to get really confusing! You mean- the _Other_ Dirk, of course.

fucking

The "Main" Dirk, perhaps. You have to get better at taxonomizing these things. The Dirk you dated.

my

The one that left you for dead with no rhyme or reason why.

Double.

Pardon? *sniffles whilst tenderly rubbing my back*

Don't play coy with me, Jake.

HAHA! Well helloooooo nurse! This is so strange.

Are you projecting your thoughts into mine mister?

I'm delivering your last and only warning.

You'd be wise to heed it.

Wait wait wait hold the line operator.

Are you here with me?

Not in a million goddamn years.

Aw man… *sigh* and here i got so excited for a measly second.

Where are you then?

None of your business.

Cripes. You dont have to be so cold.

I was just trying to be polite you know like a gentleman.

Like a _gentleman?_

Yes thats what i said!

I'm incredibly curious. 

What kind of shit tier Victorian-passing drivel have you been using as a guide to indiscriminately abuse of my patience, exactly?

Huh?

Are you seriously fucking trying to rile me up on purpose.

Im afraid i dont know the first devildicking thing regarding WHATEVER IT IS youre yammering on and on about!

Cant you just _talk_ to me like a normal person? Is that really so difficult???

This is hardly any way to say hello to an esteemed old bud.

Alright. If you insist.

Allow me to clarify the gravity of the current situation in excruciating detail, so i don't run the risk of leaving you with any pointless or trite leftover questions.

Ready? Here goes the FAQ:

Exactly three days ago you decided, for seemingly no reason, to have me magically metamorphosed into a derivative neko-adjacent aberration suffering through the effects of some sort of pyretic sex frenzy. 

At which point i was greatly encouraged to fuck myself with what i can only describe as a "Mammoth Sized Monster Cock."

Just because you could.

 _”Oh,”_ you think.

Clearly not satisfied with such amateurish entrées, you decided to have me permanently set to "kitten" and summarily defiled for the duration of the following week.

At inconvenient, if not highly imprevisible intervals.

Oh shit. 

Tuesday's ministrations were comprised of pillow rutting and pretty collars, which didn't warrant further intervention on the grounds of utterly failing to fuck with my vibe in any way that truly mattered.

I figured you were hungover, or something.

Wednesday took a mad pirouette leap off the handle to tight rope constraints and fucking around with magic wands, and i thought _that_ was already pushing the edges of common sense too far, but then Thursday's theme, from what i can presently gather, seems to be something along the lines of _Puss in Boots._

Sans thrusting vibrator.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit s

I have a feeling it's not hard to guess why this shit has quickly grown to irritate me.

Are you telling me that i.

I mean um.

Do you mean to say that youve.

Youve been…?

"Gee dirk! are you trying to tell me you were all booked up for first row seating during every other petting, rubbing, knotting, spanking and/or otherwise 'incidental' breach of privacy of the dubiously consensual variety right as it happened or somesuch?"

Yes. 

That’s what i just fucking told you.

*gulp!!!*

I admit i was operating under this misguided impression you might've called it quits the moment you realized you just wouldn't be able to get ahold of me that way.

But wouldn'tcha know, i was proven dead fuckin' wrong. 

So here we are.

The all too familiar hot white flash of shame slowly creeps up the back of your neck like a neglected morning-after lover, setting your blood aboil. Your cheeks are the first to color, darkening heavily before the incoming swirl of emotional lava claims the top of your head. Your vision is nearly laid to waste for a full minute, and when you finally manage to coax your eyes open again to turn to look at Brain Ghost Dirk, he seems caught halfway through "mildly annoyed" and halfway through "blissed out", like he can hardly believe some pompous tool is daring to suggest he should immediately forfeit the pleasure he’s worked so hard to obtain.

Your first assumption was that Dirk was speaking through him like a hardwired payphone line, but the indignant huff and eyeroll he issues in response to the voice rattling about in your heads quickly disproves that theory. 

His thighs still quiver.

I didnt… infringe on your boundaries did i?

That would be just so dreadfully impolite and, and rather... grossly brutish of me of course.

I certainly DIDNT mean to!!!

Yeah dude, sorry to break it to you.

You kinda infringed on me pretty goddamn hard.

Oh sweet god golly fuck.

I do hope youll give me a chance to explain myself! Im really, truly sorry!! Really!!!!

I had no friggin IDEA that you and brain ghost dirk were-

Wait, you’re the sorry one here? _Are_ you sorry? You’re not a total rube, you’re full and well aware that Dirk has… “interfered” with some parts of your thoughtslime, to put it kindly, given himself full permission to exert his undying curiosity on the trappings of your brain without first bothering to consult with your person for any kind of further corroboration.

Were...

Still, you do feel kind of terribly guilty over this, it can’t be helped. That's just the part of you that is you. It’s pretty much impossible to reconcile the two emotions, as sizzling black anger and bitter penance begin wrestling in a mud ring to monopolize your attention. Against all odds, the most aggressive reflex tends to win out this time.

Not that i.

Not that i should feel bad about it actually, in all honesty, YOU seemed pretty used to doing whatever the hell YOU felt like when you had the chance to do so.

In the case you have conveniently forgotten. WHICH I HAVENT, and you really have got some NERVE to show up with any godforsaken ultimatums after all of THAT.

But.

For the record.

Had i known you were along for the ride twenty four seven i wouldnt have done as much as *consider* accepting brain ghost dirks invitation.

I would utterly despise to bring you any harm.

Most of all through my own accursed doing.

Not that i would let you.

No offense man, but it would be intellectually dishonest of me to play into this delusion i'm somehow at your mercy here.

I'm not.

That sure is one truncated apology though. Bravo. I hope you got it all out.

So to recapitulate i "deserved it, but you're sorry that you were the one to find a blind spot and exploit it because now *you're* the one left feeling like a shady guy?" Wow.

Thats not what i meant at all!!!!!

I'd be grateful if you didn't try to waste our time bullshitting me when you made that point very clear.

If anything, I can certainly appreciate your honesty on the matter.

Eye for an eye, etc.

This isn't a fair assessment of the situation at all, you want to tell him, but the words wind up dead and dry at your throat. Your breath comes out in worked-up puffs. You hide your face in your hands and try to cope with the fact this is rapidly escalating to the top of your most embarrassing social blunders, and will surely claim a place among the first contenders, almost as cartoonishly bad as being invited to a primo business dinner party and getting caught jacking off to pictures of the patron's daughter halfway through the turkey roast. 

But i’ve got to admit i never thought you would stoop so low.

Which you're pretty sure is something that happens in at least two stupidly raunchy comedy movies you shouldn't have watched before the age of sixteen, whose titles you can't remember for the life of you, drowning in thoughts of how irrevocably fucked you are.

Okay, let's cut the crap now shall we.

I wasn't going to interject out of respect for the sanctity of your couples' discourse hour, like a good boy, but it's _our_ space.

Don't be so eager to forget that.

Oh, that's great. Another one.

Just what this conversation needed.

'Sup Dirk.

Thrilled to see you back so soon.

Can't say i share the sentiment.

You sound wounded. Vaguely passive-aggressive at that.

Weird, has it got something to do with me?

You overstay your welcome.

Au contraire. I was expertly led in through the main entrance door by none other than yours truly.

 _You_ vacated a VIP seat ripe for the taking, left it completely unflanked, and then fucked off a thousand years into the vast emptiness of hyperspace.

I just couldn't help myself.

You shouldn't have been able to reach me as far as I am.

What did you do?

I dunno.

Ask Jake.

(Me?)

You were obviously the one orchestrating this overture, not him.

Maybe, maybe not.

Aren't we already way past the threshold of communicating through smartass riddles for idiots?

Fuck off.

What's the big issue with having _a little fun?_ God knows you're busy doing jack fucking shit besides dicking around in your little playmobile interplanetary engineer station.

I can damn well choose how i get to spend my free time, and it seems like whether you're spying on me in barely restrained envy or not is entirely your problem.

Maybe if you learned to stick to your business, you wouldn't be bothered.

This is ridiculous.

Sliding your fingers from under your lenses, you ignore the blaring alarm signs to risk a peek at BGD. 

He's long since discarded the loving toy and pulled his pants up, which is a shame, but you can't fault him for holding onto a shred of basic dignity. During the minutes in which he's lifted the metaphorical weights of this argument for you, he has transcended from vaguely annoyed to deliciously amused. He would be spinning on the chair, if he could afford to move it. 

The color-coded noise of slightly discordant dirks _fencing_ to claim the final word in this shootout echoes through the forefront of your mind, bouncing off of the dustiest memory shelves you have to offer, lodged deep within the catacombs of your infancy, and for a second, it all feels so familiar you could almost laugh. This _is_ ridiculous. This is pure, unbridled, godsdamned stupidity. 

_This is such classic Dirk._

This is how he's always been. Erring on the verge of petulance, striving to sound like the high almighty voice of reason. It sure is funnier when it's another Dirk doing it to him, especially one that happens to agree with you.

Brain Ghost Dirk's gaze barely grasps yours from the corner of his pink-tinted shades, and you think he might've just read your thoughts again (he insists you _"broadcast"_ them for all who will listen, not the opposite, but you think that's a fakey-fake silly mind-reader excuse) so you struggle for a couple of seconds, really trying to reel yourself in, before you realize can't possibly keep it together anymore.

Your laughs come out as a series of quiet and shaky breaths, like the tentative unscrewing of a soda bottle that's been shaken too much, the closest you can get to a well-humoured whimper.

What's so funny.

Heheh… doesnt this remind you of the good times?

The "good times?".

Oh you know!

Nothing but you and me and your autoresponder tumbling about the lush bush of the tropical jungle, caught in a scuffle four thousand odd years apart.

Except now its… our autoresponder?

I feel like i should consider this more than a little degrading, but i can't come up with a solid reason why.

I certainly didnt mean that as a jab!

By all accounts youre far more bodily present and readily communicative.

Thanks babe. I'm glad somebody knows how to appreciate my miku hologram properties.

So, to reiterate.

These are supposed to be the "good times" you speak of.

Oh be nice, wont you. 

Yeah Dirk, be nice. What crawled up your ass and died there? 

Christ. Did you teach him to speak with that color on purpose?

Trying to get the starting edge on a little nostalgia play between pals?

I taught myself. I'm right here, you know.

You can address me directly.

I'll make sure to pen down a little sticky note on my bursting schedule to think about it, if i'm lucky enough to find an opening. Oh, what's that?

I see.

Sorry, turns out my agenda is all kinds of totally assfucked right now. A reply may take me seven to eleven business days, not counting weekends and compulsory office breaks. Apparently this sector is getting overhauled, and that's gonna take a few months. 

We'll have to close the whole damn operation. Hopefully next year i'll get back to you, beegeedee.

Um!

"Bursting schedule" lol.

FYI Jake: That's his way of letting you know he's going to be VERY busy ballbusting his metatestes with a space-proof chastity cage.

Feel no need to translate for me i can hear the man just fine!

I'm not staying for this.

Wait dirk 

There it is.

Dirk!

Dirk?

DIRK!!!!!!!

…

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You've lost him. 

A flat ringing noise manifests in your head in his absence, one you would easily liken to the sound your rackety television used to make when you turned the old girl off. It's a scratchy, static filled silence that supersedes its natural counterpart. A hollow nook. The message is clear: whatever gateway had opened between you two was forcibly powered down from the outside.

You curse, in spite of yourself.

(DIRK): Sorry, that was my fault.  
JAKE: Hardly so!  
JAKE: Hes testy and difficult enough on his own in a good day it wasnt your… well MAYBE it was kind of your fault this time specifically.  
JAKE: Dont think hell take well to you *breathing down his neck* any way we slice it.

Brain Ghost Dirk gives you a wry smile, undoubtedly satisfied with his performance. 

JAKE: Next time let me do a bit more of the talking alright?  
JAKE: ...Assuming there is one.  
(DIRK): Aye-aye cap’n, i’ll keep it _real_ lowkey.

You take a seat at the table, crossing your arms. All the argumenting has totally turned you off sexytimes, but in exchange, the twists of fate have enticed you with the very real possibility you get to talk with Dirk Prime again. Even if he just shut that door on your face. The fact said door _exists at all_ means there’s a viable way to convince him to open it for you, eventually, if you tempt him with a good dose of eyelash-batting and old school pleading. 

Gosh, your hands are so sweaty.

JAKE: So what in the blazes was that all about?  
(DIRK): Wdym.

You lift an eyebrow at him. He quizzically lifts one of his own in response. You stand like two assholes three feet apart with eyebrows raised at each other, waiting for the next guy to bat down this subject like it hadn't been brought up.

JAKE: Dirk. *Something* is going on here and whatever it is has my hands all over it but not by my design.  
JAKE: If you would be so kind to tell me, id be very grateful to know.  
JAKE: Just what in the accursed heavens is going on?

You try to raise your brow to lengths it's never been raised before, ever, by any human being. Cartoonishly up there, about to snip off your forehead and take to the skies. By the looks of it, Brain Ghost Dirk tries not to crack in response. 

And he loses. 

He _laughs._

He laughs and doubles over on his recliner, holding his stomach, rubbing a tear that struggles to escape the corner of his left eye. He laughs like he's been holding it in for an hour, a day, _a week,_ like this is the payoff he had truly hoped for upon falling to his knees and begging you to unmake him. A successful stride in a long plan. 

(DIRK): Okay! Ok, you got me.  
(DIRK): There was no _plan,_ per se, just a vague hypothesis about what could happen.  
(DIRK): I wanted to see what you would do with a kick in the right direction.  
JAKE: Well? Are you satisfied? Did you have a grand rollicking good time?  
(DIRK): More than you could ever possibly imagine.  
JAKE: Im imagining it all right!!!!  
JAKE: Still waiting for that explanation. Should be coming any moment now. Hope to god its a good one!  
(DIRK): Give me a theory. What do you think is going on?  
JAKE: I… guess you played some sort of elaborate prank on other dirk to annoy him and i was none the wiser?  
(DIRK): Technically, but in a broader sense that's only a piece of it.  
(DIRK): Weren't you wondering how i was able to keep in contact so far away? You breached the distance.  
(DIRK): I wasn't joking back there, it was all you.  
(DIRK): Making him feel the things i feel? Probably you again. To be honest i didn't expect it to work. I figured maybe he'd be inconvenienced by the thought of us, not the feeling.  
(DIRK): My current hypothesis is that so long as you reach from one side, and he from the other, you are both able to connect somewhere in the middle. A sort of shared domain where your powers feed off one another like a knock-off fraymotif that makes gloriously stupid shit happen.  
JAKE: Like…?  
(DIRK): Like the feat of making me into more than a thirsty man's intangible mirage, as an example.  
JAKE: Oh. Huh!  
JAKE: So thats what happened back then.  
JAKE: I... kinda hoped it had been my willpower alone.  
(DIRK): Cute, but no.  
(DIRK): I guess "willpower" is close depending how you look at it.  
(DIRK): But not entirely.  
JAKE: And how exactly am i supposed to look at it?  
(DIRK): Like a triumph of co-op narrative.

Brain Ghost Dirk looks at you expectantly.

He says the word like this is a **"thing".** A **"big concept".** The sort of idea that would usually be conveyed with a special dazzling oomph, bold black text that comes neatly underlined for extra emphasis. 

JAKE: Is that supposed to mean anything to me?  
(DIRK): I dunno.  
(DIRK): Does it sound like something to you?

You lean forward on your seat, patiently resting your elbows at the table. Brain Ghost Dirk tries to stay still as a rock, but his spine is firmly burrowed against the back of the chair, digging into the folds. You'd wager if he tried to retreat further than he physically is right now he'd fall right through its core in a slapstick sequence. 

JAKE: I think youre trying to play a little game with me, but i didnt exactly get to agree to it in the first place.  
JAKE: Im not fond of the idea of that happening again, capiche?  
JAKE: Does this have anything to do with my make believe powers?  
(DIRK): First off, sweet callback.  
(DIRK): Secondly, yeah, maybe.  
JAKE: Thats NOT an answer. You said youd spill the beans but youre still treating me like im stupid all over again!  
JAKE: Im sick of coyly *winking* and *nudging* and *beating around the friggin bush* till ive got nothing but two fists full of dirt and mangled up leaves. Is it or is it not?  
(DIRK): This is the sort of information that could potentially land you and me into deep shit. Especially if you take a wrong turn.  
(DIRK): Do you think you can handle trudging through the dregs of deep shit, Jake?  
JAKE: Boy here i thought we were already doing just that.  
JAKE: Yes. Whatever! Who cares.  
JAKE: I havent died so far, i doubt this would be the thing to finally do my head in.

Dirk evaluates you with the voracity of a cornered predator. Are you truly that weak, you wonder? That fragile? That easy to crack? You can see why and how one could reach that conclusion. You haven't amounted to much, you've long since stopped aspiring to, and maybe you've also atrophied a little, the further you stepped into the realms of adulthood and shed the clinging remnants of your teenage vim. Sometimes it feels like it made you forget what it was like to dream, to look at the world squarely on its face and have at it. 

_How does Dirk see me?_ You wonder. The same as yourself? Perhaps worse, without the generosity of padding around the edges, and the positively hopeful aura you shroud yourself in whenever you so much as glance in the mirror? You wonder if he thinks you are disposable, or weak, or disposable _because_ you are weak. Maybe you've given him a reason to think so. Maybe you are unable to change yourself, and his mind, and this is all there ever will be.

Then he steeples his fingers on the wood surface, just shy from yours, and takes a breath.

(DIRK): We exist in a deeply fictionalized universe, one whose entire conceptual existence revolves around the word and whims of an unseen narrator. Narrators, sometimes. Interlopers, disruptors, whatever you want to call them, even the most powerful of our enemies was as at his heart a mere character, and we were nothing but the chorus of colorful puppets framing his self-fulfilling arrival and subsequential descent.  
(DIRK): And like characters in an ever-developing soap opera, we were fed concepts, visuals, intrigue, manufactured growth, and pretty much most of our lines for as long as we've existed. For a while, most of us managed to live happily unaware of this fact. I mean, we won. Why should anything else fucking matter?  
(DIRK): Except I figured it out.  
(DIRK): Other me, but same difference. My aspect lends itself neatly to all sorts of soul-searching-shit, my class kind of heavily implies i'm prone to being a spoilsport. It was only a matter of time before i destroyed the flimsy magic of showmanship keeping this illusion hastily suspended in the audience's belief.  
(DIRK): And decided i had a better story to tell while at it, i guess.  
(DIRK): So.  
(DIRK): Sound insane yet?  
JAKE: So thats what it was.  
JAKE: I mean, i had a hunch.  
(DIRK): You…  
(DIRK): Wait that's it?  
JAKE: What else can i say? It sure is a lot isnt it. But its not like it doesnt make sense. A lot of silly bullshit that has happened to us along the years can be explained right away when you put it like that. Nice and proper.  
JAKE: Quite frankly, its kind of comforting to be able to lay it out on the mat and just have at it.  
(DIRK): What?  
JAKE: *Shrugs sheepishly* I cant be that much of a damned disappointment if ive been projected to act exactly like that for a purpose, can i?  
JAKE: Makes sense id be the comedic relief. Every good story needs one of those! And daresay im pretty good at jokes. Mostly unwittingly. But still.  
JAKE: Oh! *smacks my fist against my open hand in exclamation* Now it TOTALLY makes sense why i knew all these things i wasnt supposed to know. Maybe it was a narrative thing all along…? Is that what you mean when you say it?

Brain Ghost Dirk looks at you like you've just said you enjoy fucking big wet fresh frogs. It is a little concerning. Both for him and for you, who just had to process that thought. 

JAKE: Is that how im able to tug you around and stuff? Is that what ive been trying to do all this time on the assumption it was just regular ol telekinesis?  
(DIRK):  
JAKE: No wonder ive been doing so poorly. They sound like completely different things! I need to figure out thoughtstuffs, not how to levitate a teacup and make sure it floats gently.  
JAKE: Are you… feeling alright dirk you look paler than usual.

Dirk dissolves on the chair under your watch, but only emotionally, his shoulders hanging limblessly as he slides to a puddle down the seat. 

If you pay attention, you think you can almost pinpoint the mood shifts as they happen. Denial, guilt, confusion, something that looks close to despair but not quite, Strider Angst™, and then its bony and sturdy and long gloved human hands covering his face as he pushes his shades upwards and scratches at his forehead, massaging slow circles in it.

You watch his ribcage rise and fall as he groans. His cat tail flips like a furry whip, with enough force to pull a muffled noise from the leather surface it is carelessly slashing against. _Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

(DIRK): You're going to try and tell me this doesn't upset you? Not even a little?  
(DIRK): What the fuck.  
(DIRK): How can you just keep going without even getting mad for a second?  
JAKE: Oh rest assured i expect this will most definitely make me deeply upset at some point in the near future.  
JAKE: I might cry a little. Or a lot. Youll have to stop me in case i want to pick up a bottle again of course. Im not giving up the fight just yet!  
JAKE: But as of right now ive got too many things to think about to even consider being sad. Kind of a first? I can feel it burbling in the back of my noggin but its simply not happening right now. Hah!  
JAKE: Say dirk can you tell me a thing.  
(DIRK): Sure, why not, it's not like you've just told me you might go off like a dormant nuke at any second.  
(DIRK): Shoot.  
JAKE: Do…  
JAKE: Do the cat ears bother you? Because i can make them go away.  
JAKE: I realize this played into your hand as far as other dirk is concerned but i dont think itd be right to make you keep them.  
JAKE: After everything.  
(DIRK): They annoyed me at first. Felt ridiculous, still sort of does.  
(DIRK): But it fits in an odd way. What's another bizarre detail in a series of extremely weird and hyperspecific events. Fuckall.  
(DIRK): Nya, bitch.  
(DIRK): Short answer, i think they carry their own deliciously ironic flair as a whole, but _especially_ when wielded as a weapon.  
JAKE: Right. Right.  
JAKE: Another question!  
JAKE: Were _you_ trying to make Dirk mad all along?  
(DIRK): Yes.

Sigh. 

Of course, that was to be expected. It's better to get it straight from the horse's mouth.

That leaves you with only one trite, leftover question. 

JAKE: Would you be mad if i happened to consider seeing Dirk again?

Brain Ghost Dirk's cheeks split into an uncharacteristic smile. His mouth opens just enough to allow for a sharp intake of breath, indiscreetly showing his canines.

(DIRK): I would like to see you try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Did your summary just lie to me?" you ask, upon reaching this author's comment. "That wasn't an amiable conversation, much less a salvageable relationship. They didn't even fuck in this one. If there was a negative kudos option, i would click it."
> 
> i swear, that's what the other chapters are for! Thx for the sweet comments in part one, these fuel me :)
> 
> Ps; you can follow me (and this fic) at [lithiumalchemist.tumblr.com](https://lithiumalchemist.tumblr.com) !


	2. Have you considered gardening?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We spend an afternoon with The Prince and company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If chapter 1 was the "jake coping chapter", I like to think of this one as the "dirk coping chapter". No additional warnings apply, except… its Ultimate Dirk. I think you know what kind of stuff you're getting, but i doubt it's going where you think.

SUBTITLES  


GIRL: "A-ahh, uuuuuunnnnnfffff~!!”

GIRL: “[PROTAGONIST]-kun!!! Your big meat rod is filling me up! It's filling meee!!!!"

An incredibly cool dude affixes his impassive gaze on the screen as a fat-tittied anime girl gets the daylights plowed out of her. The scene throbs and flashes with bursts of bright color, blinking in hopes to emphasize the violent fuck momentum; and a generous timeslot is spent focusing on the way her breasts bounce with total disregard for the laws of physics. While they're sometimes arguably in sync, her jugs are far more fond of flapping in opposite directions, individually from one another, and they do so with reckless abandon. It's a wonder how she's not hit in the face with them. Getting knocked out by the raw power contained in a punch given by your own tits seems, in the very least, like a badass accomplishment — or so posits The Prince.

He's really not getting off to this. _Why_ he’s still subjecting himself to the agony of witnessing it remains a mystery unlikely to be puzzled out. Critiquing the generic design choices and ill-advised animation angles that snitch on the fact the OVA's production was rushed, sloppy, and inarguably low-budget has entertained him far more than humouring the messy action onscreen. 

So much so that, upon further thought, The Prince decides to put his time to the task of arranging a dossier of pertinent information for review. About a dozen different browser windows crowd the video player, and they keep piling up, each ransacked from the decomposing innards of a long dead internet. Covering a wide range of WIKIPEDIA ARTICLES to RELATED BOOTLEG FREE HENTAI SITES, he practically drowns out the clip projected on the captain cabin's singular white wall with PURE STREAMS OF RAWDOGGED INFORMATION.

This is his BRAND now. 

FUCKING HELL.

But he’s sticking to the bit, no matter how painful or idiotic. You have to give him props for that. He’s clenching so goddamn hard on this show pony mullen he might as well go shopping for matching blinkers, and make sure they get his initials properly monogrammed this time– preferably in pink. His eyes gloss over an outdated collection of shitty Flash Player meet-n-fuck games that shouldn’t even exist, most of which employ plagiarized graphics. To his left, an animepedia listicle boasts the production details and crew of _(presented here in rōmaji):_

FIREFIGHTER PRINCESS:  
MAGICAL GIRL’S PERVY WET DREAM!♡!♡!♡!♡!

(Original japanese title dutifully omitted from this record since we’ve all learned... valuable lessons from Damara, haven’t we.)

At least I have.

Apologies for the sudden burst of second-person, anonymous onlooker that may or may not exist solely as a byproduct of my heightened state of _metapsychosis._ But after so much contrived mental debate… well, one is tempted to stretch his legs. Wiggle the toes off the sandals a bit. Let the blood cycle back in. Maybe I'll do a few laps around the perimeter, if you don’t mind. It won’t be a second.

I jest. But anyhow, it’ll be easier to keep track of the focal thread in this scene if I just make it all about little ol' _me._ I’m sure you understand the necessity more than any other, and at this rate must be dying for it, saliva steadily dribbling down your chins and seeping into your undershirts at the mere sight of Fanta-styled Garamond text —a symptomatic tell of chronic vitamin DS deficiency. _"How long has it been now, Doc? Months, years, decades? The hours blur together and I feel so unfit,"_ You cry as your body spasms with the lethargic jolts of nutrient deprivation, so pallid and sicklish you were ready to forfeit all hope, almost toppling at death's door. But rest easy, now. The big man HASS the CAR; and he is tearing the highway a new one with a big shipment of that top-shelf stuff sloshing about his backseat. There's so much of it the pavement feels like a slip n' slide. Rearview mirrors are being hit. Children scream. Witnesses are getting baptized with citric slime and crying with joy in the collateral periphery— or as live reporters are now calling it, "The Bukkake Splash Zone" —of my radical swerving, and we've still got enough Big D Juice to bathe a whole football stadium in. Whew, try to hold the applause.

Now, where was I?

Oh, Damara Megido and the crux of wasted potential. Let’s not be unkind to her in isolation. It’s not her fault the Dancestors suck shit. Sorry, I realize this might ruffle some particularly sensitive feathers in the audience, but I find no use in dealing with butchered half-truths. If any "Dancestor Fan" has made it this far, sincerely: What the fuck? But you know what, good for you. Don’t let me decimate your self-esteem, if you’re out there. You're an exemplary bastion of this community. You probably have a strong stomach and remarkably high pain tolerance, or, in the very least, the winning naivete of an eleven year old. But shit, that's veering off track. Let's skrrrt this van around.

If we're being honest with ourselves and objective with the product, that’s the part of Act 6 where Homestuck begins a steady march towards its inevitable collapse. Broken threads, infantile wailing, pointless heaps of filler background lore and nauseating fish puns, topped with a hacky imitation of racially-charged vernacular. This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but a pungent, thalassic fart, which torments the already opaque waters of the community center's kiddy pool for sixty _goddamned_ minutes. (Depending on your playtime.)

Of course you couldn’t see it back then. Bewitched as you were by the siren call of twelve brand-new troll teens, with bishonen sprites to boot, dispensed like a plentiful feast of candy —or, if you prefer, like liquid wisdom trickling down the underskirts of a profane internet god— but time wasted on countless hours of Meenahbound development hell could’ve been used to, y’know, actually pad the fucking alpha arc. Isn’t that just a crazy idea? Instead of two worthless, cartoonishly overstuffed B groups concerned with irrelevant interpersonal teen drama that goes absolutely nowhere, we might’ve actually spared Jane a character arc. Can you imagine a world where that happens? Where all the discord, hardship and strife were meant for something? Haha. I wish I could believe in a world where that happens. But instead, we got the Ballet of the Dancestors. And what good did it do to us.

No one is more upset about this turn of events than I, and of that I can assure you. You think you've gotten used to a life of unweaving a wide tapestry of red herrings and false positives, and that the plot is as silly and as stupid as it can possibly get, but nothing can prepare you for this, the abject despair of futility. Imagine looking at your best friend in the face, and being privy to all the paths laid before her. The ones she's pitiably blind to, the doomed offshoots, and all the upset waters she will trudge and heave against, the oceans she will cross under great duress, struggling for a mite of oxygen, only to finally drown in a shallow puddle of mud against the concrete. Imagine looking at her, into her glossy, baby-blue eyes, and realizing the best thing destiny will ever _allow_ her to achieve is a faint note of merciful and lukewarm mediocrity. 

That kills the man.

At least Jane can rule a kingdom if she puts her mind to it, provided the story needs a villain. Once upon a time, I might’ve struggled against the notion, but hey, look at me. There are worse things to be. I’m of the mind that hated may in fact be better than _forgotten._ Her name is on the marquee, and so’s mine. If what you want is decency, look the other way. Roxy has the fairest shot at figuring their shit out eventually, I'm sure of it. Out of the four of us, they were always meant to be /the/ protagonist. It's hardly any contest. As for Jake… well, forget about it. Don't even get your hopes up, dog. Jake is, was, and will continue to be God's most expensive punching bag. He's been so utterly reduced to a vehicle of cheap two-dimensional comedic value and squandered characterization, you could write a surrealist tragedy out of it starring Joaquin Phoenix. Book an all-star cast, too. Do a full sweep at the Oscars.

Earth C has been nothing but a glorified second cage to him, projected to seed for his inevitable demise. Because that's the thing about Jake: you get all this material, all this build-up, all these hints and promises, all this _Hope,_ and the end result is nothing but the carpet being pulled out from under your feet. A payoff was never part of the plan, and you were stupid for actually caring. The joke is on you for ever giving a shit. We wasted all the budget making Alt!Calliope plot relevant, for some reason.

I know this. I've accepted this. I've moved past this.

 _I know this._ I'm the one handling the controls now.

So why in the everliving fuck is he back again?

I don't see the point of parading a dead horse around town long after the vultures have flayed the fetid corpse clean of its intestines. It's a waste of resources, of paragraph allocation, of useful word count. It's foolishly, needlessly cruel. Who's still laughing at this point? Who's having fun lashing the derelict? What is the fucking endgame?

This is not the way things are supposed to happen. That much is clear. Rose has never mentioned this, in passing or otherwise, and she has grown to enjoy the deployment of casual spoilers like nuclear missiles. Not that I'd necessarily want her to pitch in, considering the dirty minutiae involved, and there ain't no chance I'll be the one to bring it up to her; but if this was on the trip itinerary, I would know. Terezi would similarly find great joy in using this to roast me alive. Point being, _it's wrong,_ and within this chasm of uncertainty lies the very real possibility we're spiralling off path, like a grain of sand swept in the wave of a cosmic whirlpool, and that is a goddamn BITCH of a situation.

It’s not the suspense that bothers me, not really. It’s his unpredictability.

I can work with probability. I can do percentages. I can adjust to a scarcity of information, to black holes blotting out sections of an otherwise perfectly omniscient 20/20 vision. What I cannot do, however, is try to account for the loose cannon of despair that is Jake English. He doesn't "do" things according to plan. It's antithetical to his very design. You could account for his every breath, every common mistake and pattern and, not satisfied, he’d still find ways to sidestep his cues. It was so much _easier_ to write myself losing to him in every single one of our televised matches, than to try to be prepared to perform a genuine Mistake Waltz against the Minotaur.

This was one of the most alluring parts of him, once. His ease to mutate under the lens of a camera, the blink of an eye, and still pack enough versatility to adapt himself to different screen ratios. He’s everything, he’s nothing, he’s the vast realm of startling possibility that sprawls forth regardless of limitations. Which, when you think about it, it's a little too much like the spread of a deadly virus.

Like the ripples on the surface of a deceptively calm lake before a devastating storm sinks your yacht.

Dirk Strider reels back. 

He tries to convince himself that this, too, does not affect him. Or it will not, because he won't allow it to. If Dirk makes an effort to gather his thoughts, he’ll be back in the game in no time. Jake’s enduring relevance does not frighten him. It is beneath him. 

He’s not scared.

It’s so, so much worse than that. He’s _lost._

Totally and utterly adrift, with a sick twinge of excitement wrapped around the unfurling rush of despair like a ribbon, his preferred method of self-defense. What happens now? Who's to say? Who would dare risk a guess but himself? He needs to be in control, he needs a point of reference, and he needs to be prepared.

He needs to fix this, and he knows how.

==>

Feel free to stop me if you've heard this one before. 

I, your friendly neighbourhood postman, step up to the front porch with a package covered in generic stickers. I'm decked out in my cute little USPS uniform, standard blue, like a model citizen. Bag? Check. Tag? Check. Cap sitting gingerly atop my head, smushing my priceless ‘do, rendering me too bashful to meet any wayward gaze in my disheveled state? Why, check, please. Alas, I am too meek and sweet-natured to allow for carnal mess-ups during work hours. However, that does not stop me from donning some tight-ass pants. My belt hangs vaguely askew in a subtle way that suggests I’m prone to dropping my briefs without realizing, but whenever I do so, you know it's always on accident, because at heart I’m a good little boy. There’s a fair chance my service name is both made-up and trending on Pornhub’s ebony tag right now, with three and a half stars accompanying it.

You get the general picture.

The recipient of whatever I'm carrying in this big cardboard box doubles as my final destination. What’s in the package doesn't matter, it's mere set dressing, don’t even ask about it. He takes just about any gift in the exact same way; with a bright, toothy smile, and a disproportionate tide of excitement to accompany it.

DIRK: Ah.

The STERN GRANDFATHERLY AURA of DIPLOMATIC COURTESY surrounding this place gently demands that your _"I's"_ be demoted to _"You's",_ as if reminding a particularly rambunctious guest which function one's indoors voice is meant to serve. Come in, it says, and leave the funny little thing you do with words to protect you from oncoming rainwater by the porch, if you please. Clean your dirty shoes on the welcome mat before you track any mud over the pristine linoleum, and be sure to watch your step. But do come in!

Indubitably artistic as your prose often is, dear, here it is deemed wholly irrelevant. There are _no omniscient narrators_ here, only subjective points of view. If you make an effort to relax, which you often do under the patron’s advice, the pesky limitation reminds you of a misleading simplicity confined in memories of your pre-game life.

What extends before you is a liminal space of sorts, found neither here nor there. It cannot be concisely described, because it cannot be completely defined, but if it had to be likened to anything at all, the closest analogue would be an obligatory smoking room marked with an “EMPLOYEES-ONLY” sign by the door, situated between the folds of reality; the kind of space that exists only to spare others from any possibility of inconvenience.

There is nothing much to see around here, to be honest— not on your lonesome. Yet every time you visit, inexplicably, you swear it feels more and more like your own secret little haven.

You're wearing spats with running kicks, like a jackass. Your collar is dutifully popped out, two top buttons down. You hold no delusions of tricking him into believing you to be someone you are not, but the aesthetic seems obligatory to match the scene. This is your perception, and this much is your design.

Finding the front door ajar, you walk through a field of blinding white that stretches into the horizon until it bleeds into a deep green. Formless ground gives way to soil, and the soil lends basis for grass; fresh, well-cut, bristling. Dirt crunches satisfactorily under your feet, and at his rate it feels like a novelty. Breathing in the crisp oxygen revitalizes your space-constricted lungs one step at a time, flooding you with freshness by the lungful. You catch a glimpse of broad shoulders through protruding greenery, and push through the leaves just in time to see him lift himself off the floor.

He stills at the sound of your footsteps like an army dog, warily at first, then turns to peek over his shoulder with a look of anticipation. 

HARLEY: Well well well.  
HARLEY: Would you look at what the cats all up and dragged in!

He flashes you an easy smile like you might actually deserve such warmth. Behind a bold black frame and a pair of thick lenses, the tips of his eyes wrinkle, and you feel yourself automatically quit slouching— it is as if a heavy coat of lead, up until now dulling your senses and blurring your vision with the sweet song of toxin, has been lifted from your shoulders in an act of sympathy.

Who else could it be? It's Jake, but a different one, parked somewhere around his fifties. Hell, maybe further up. Sixties? Sweet kickflipping shit that sounds so fucking old. Whatever. You don't think he looks a single day over _drop dead sexy._ And you're immortal, anyway, this hardly matters. A garden hose coils around the girth of his burly left forearm and loops over his other one like he's been wrestling a serpent made of green rubber, and the spoils of conquest still drip with faint, crystalline venom. He throws it over his shoulder as the stream dries up, making quick work of untangling himself from his gloves to allow for a proper physical greeting.

You mentally clench down in preparation. Here it comes.

HARLEY: Didnt expect you to be back so soon!  
DIRK: I hope I'm not interrupting anything.  
HARLEY: Oh nonsense, out with the stupid bullshit. Cmere!!

Jake swoops you up from the ground and gives your middle a squeeze, boasting of a patented lack of shits to spare for the hefty box you're struggling to carry. It's a bit like being attacked by an overfamiliar black bear. He chuckles into your shoulder when your legs go positively stiff with the pressure and, with heat rising to your cheeks, you resort to bumbling half-hearted objections midair until he loosens his grip. You can sniff the salt on his skin, wet from prancing under the sun, mixed with notes of grass. You try not to think about how awkwardly tangled up you are, and the creeping _déjà vu_ of being manhandled like this, by him, but the heart wants, well, _what it wants._

Fuck. He flicks my uniform cap clean off my head and pulls me close for a welcome kiss, fisting my scalp. The axis of the world shifts. I'm swung ever-so-slightly backwards, dipped to slot into him, and it's clumsily picturesque, the closest you can get to cinematic. Like a captain manning a ship, his work-weary fingers tangle in my hair to firmly steer me around. The cardboard box is quickly discarded once I'm forced to brace myself on his shoulders, and I lock my legs behind his hips to keep myself upright. Here, I happen to sit at perfect bulge-height, and the casual gray sweatpants he's wearing— which, by the way, look _disorientingly_ good on a man of his age —are too good of a teasing opportunity to pass up. A thrill of recognition courses through me, caught up in his net. He could fuck me standing up.

In reality, the embrace is chaste and quick. His breath momentarily ghosts your neck just long enough for it to feel excruciating, like something else could still happen if you put your mind to it, but then he lets you go, and you find your balance faltering when your feet scramble to find their way back onto the earth. 

You've been trying to get this guy to fuck you for a while now, because you're clinically demented. He, on another hand, has spent much of his time trying to cajole you into having a cup of tea with him, so he's arguably way worse.

Yeah, right, thought so. 

HARLEY: So what brings you back to the ol wild hut this time around? And dont say _delivery._  
HARLEY: You come looking to deal in business or pleasure?

Pleasure. 

DIRK: It’s frankly hard to say.  
DIRK: You know I can't be trusted to make that sort of call. I'm way too self-centered.  
HARLEY: Says the man checking up on some lame windbag out of nothing but the goodness in his heart!  
HARLEY: You give yourself far too little credit you know.

Jake reaches out to relieve you of the package, and tips your hat off. Presumably, it is to "Get a good look at you." He's repeated this particular gesture plenty of times before, and always to that singular justification. You don't intend to drive him off the habit, although at this rate… you might have better results if you invest in a wardrobe that's worth the ogling. Show a little ankle, as it were, provide him with a reverse pantyshot. 

Maybe a collar. Or something he could only peek at looking from above, like a leather harness. Maybe a mesh shirt? Classic gay slut material. You could almost call it vintage. But what's your opinion on latex, Jake? Think you would like to try? Who am I kidding here. You're perpetually hungry for experimentation. I suppose if all fails, there's always the multifunctional rope.

His fingers brush the shape of your flattened curls. Startled, you arch up to meet his gaze and try to beam him up with your best attempt at bedroom eyes, a task made infinitely harder by the fact you're wearing shades. 

DIRK: Well, I disagree.  
DIRK: I merely prefer giving credit where credit's due.  
DIRK: But look at it however you wish, it’s your call. The truth of the matter remains unchanged.  
DIRK: If I was tasked to choose a diversion, I'd just end up trying to find ways to cheat you out of the other one, too.  
HARLEY: And is that supposed a bad thing?  
DIRK: Depends.  
HARLEY: Depends on…?  
DIRK: On how you think about it.  
HARLEY: *Nods prudently* Hm! Bit cagey but alright have it your way.  
HARLEY: I think i rather like your reasoning.  
DIRK: You do?

He inspects the bottom of your hat with mild curiosity for a moment, then tries it on himself, green eyes shooting up as if to risk a peek at the blazing sun. It fits oddly on him, a size too small, so soon he takes it off again. Compared to the thick mop of dark hair adorning his head in most realities, this one has thinned and grayed a bit, with the coloration gradually oscillating along the line of his scruffy beard and trademark mustache. You find it surprisingly well-kept. Against your best efforts, you can’t help but admit you like its contrast against the warm brown of his skin. It's effortlessly regal in a way few things are.

HARLEY: Sure do. Youre a busy man dirk and i know very well such a demanding line of work takes a fair amount of ambition.  
HARLEY: And conviction!  
HARLEY: That mighty drive has to come from _somewhere._  
DIRK: Right.  
DIRK: Yeah.  
DIRK: It sure does.

Unfortunately, the dejected edge to your voice betrays any pretense of impassivity you’ve ever held. Harley lifts one inquisitive eyebrow, then two.

HARLEY: Let me guess…  
HARLEY: Having a rough patch with the job, are we?  
DIRK: That's certainly a way of putting it.  
HARLEY: Would you care to elucidate the matters?  
DIRK: I doubt it would interest you much, to be honest.  
HARLEY: Oh for gods sake… ive talked with nobody but myself for heaven knows how long now!  
HARLEY: Go on just try me. worst i can do is tattle on your pretty little head to the gossiping sunflowers.  
DIRK: I feel directionless.  
DIRK: _Pointless,_ rather. I've got direction aplenty, not that it does me any good. I know we're going somewhere, full speed ahead, and I know a decisive amount of progression is involved in that simple act, but.  
HARLEY: Hearts not into it?

You give a noncommittal nod, kicking the dirt. He makes a corresponding noise at the back of his throat that sounds vaguely like recognition. It feels pathetic, to find yourself acting like this, when mere minutes prior to this conversation you knew exactly which questions you needed answered, and just how you were going to extract them from the source. Now it's like your stupid plan was feverishly stenciled on the sand, and the rising tides washed it away while you were busy not paying attention.

HARLEY: Im afraid im well aware of how that might pose a problem. Its quite a pickle youve got there dirk.  
HARLEY: But here!  
HARLEY: *sticks out elbow*  
DIRK: What?  
DIRK: Your arm?  
HARLEY: *Eyeroll* just take it!  
HARLEY: Lets go for a walk my good man. Then why dont you tell me whats got you so mucked up?  
DIRK: I think that may prove hard to explain.  
HARLEY: Hardly an issue. Between the two of us theres two perfectly agile brains and i know at least one of them is nothing short of brilliant when his dastardly owner isnt preoccupied with wringing every drop of blood out of it for sport.  
HARLEY: (thats you by the way.)  
DIRK: You can't be s-  
HARLEY: AHEM what i mean is that if we _really_ cant fix the damn thing the least we could do is give it the old college try!  
HARLEY: Cant get much worse.

He winks at you, and you know there's no way around it, you're going to have to take his arm. You permit yourself to struggle a little less forcefully against the way your lips insist on forming a smile. Stupid, stupid. Once your hand finally slips stiffly between the crook of his elbow and links you both in a chain of shared warmth, Jake _beams,_ and you know you might very well be a loser, but you're a happy one.

The world unfurls according to his footsteps. The sequence is always the same: white unto matter, matter into shape. You’re aware this space's connection to reality is tenuous at best, but its energy is decidedly infectious. Trees sprout with gusts of light from where once nothing stood before, stretching tall and proud in a matter of seconds, as if waking from a deep underground slumber. Warm-colored flowers burst to life, each a careful painted decoration. Cobblestones efficiently carpet the earth into a sinuous path you can trace with the tip of your heel. The sky is pulled open like a curtain; a soothing, placid blue. You hear a solitary bird chirp in search of another, and the flip flap of distant wings that follows to join it in flight, rustling the overhead canopies and casting cool shadows down on your feet. It's the same as birth, creation. You try to pretend you're not starstruck whenever this happens, but you have a feeling Jake knows.

And if he's showing off for you, you just hope your legs can bear to not give out until you're done here.

HARLEY: Now, why dont you do me a solid and take it from the top?

He's leaning in too close. You can feel the inviting rumble of his voice travelling up your arm, and it runs down your spine like a caress. You would _like_ to take it from the top, and if he feels like doing a charity case today, you might actually stand a chance.

Alright, big guy.

DIRK: I'd prefer to ask you a few questions instead, if you don't mind.  
DIRK: Got a lot of stuff in my head, I figure it has to go somewhere.  
HARLEY: Sure thing.  
HARLEY: If you think it does you any good why not!  
DIRK: Sweet.  
DIRK: Not trying to jump the gun here or anything, but I don't see a better opener, so lets get right down and dirty.  
DIRK: Did it feel satisfying, when you were finally done with it?  
DIRK: Your work, I mean.  
DIRK: Was it everything you hoped for?  
HARLEY: Ah. 

Jake clicks his tongue disapprovingly. The gesture is not directed at you, but you still feel faint sparks of annoyance bouncing your way. He cannot help it, the same way you cannot help but ask. Curiosity _claws_ at you at the mere sight of this place. It's taken an herculean amount of self-control to not prod him for detail before, to keep yourself circling around the edges, just roaming for scraps, scrounging up the rare morsel of wisdom.

There's no two ways about it. The man walking by your side is the unwilling lead architect of the game you're currently trying, and presumably failing, to reproduce. 

A canonical loophole, intended or not, has somehow preserved his existence beyond the boundaries of narrativization, allowing for this conversation to take place, as well as your previous sporadic visits. All he'd like is to take a leisure walk with you. You would like to—you just _wish_ you could pry his brain apart, examine it bit by bit, and see how it feels to be not only the mechanic, but the mechanism through which oblivion operates. To be perfectly useful, twice as accomplished, then dead. The freedom of having your strings cut and resting on a job well done.

Yet for some reason, he seems to resent his position. 

HARLEY: It was not, no. I doubt i had any hopes at that point to be honest.  
HARLEY: Far from it really if i HAD to describe how i felt after… finishing my sordid business i dont think it could be described as anything other than relief!  
DIRK: That you succeeded?  
HARLEY: Hah. If only.  
HARLEY: Relief that it was over, dirk. And that i didnt have to worry about any of it ever again.  
HARLEY: I had my work cut out for me from the friggin start. Cryptic instructions! Causational timeloops within causational timeloops! The complete and unavoidable devastation of everyone youve ever known!  
HARLEY: What a colossal pile of shit.  
HARLEY: Or forgive me, ‘hogwash’.  
HARLEY: I had the most thankless job any idiot could ever ask for. And i guess now you do, too.  
DIRK: Someone has to do it.  
DIRK: And I’d much rather have it be me than some other schmuck or a crazy dead alien chick.  
HARLEY: Im not arguing that in the slightest. Im sure you have your noble reasons as i had mine, of course.  
HARLEY: But... hows that truly been working out for you?

Frankly? Like shit.

DIRK: Not great.  
DIRK: I mean, I could be exaggerating.  
DIRK: Our current conditions are suboptimal at fuckin' _best,_ although we seem to be on the right path and, according to generous calculations, everything else seems to be falling into place.  
HARLEY: It seems it seems!  
HARLEY: It "seems" to me that you may be pulling my leg.

You wince. A witty note about old habits dying hard could go here, if you could only find the effort to spare.

HARLEY: Why are you here?  
HARLEY: Do try to give me a good answer now.  
DIRK: I don't know what I'm doing.  
DIRK: There, is that good?  
DIRK: I acted impulsively. I severely overestimated my ability to pull this off, didn’t cover all my bases, and now every story component is at risk of malfunctioning like faulty hardware thanks to a volatile agent acting beyond my reasoning.

And you want to know what else, Jake? That “volatile agent” is you.

DIRK: But really, it’s worse than that. It’s not just that my plans suck.  
DIRK: It’s that none of it feels like it even fucking matters.  
DIRK: It's all senseless, automatic, dry movement. An arrhythmic dubstep building towards devastating internal crisis.  
DIRK: We’re miserable blind ants stuck in a tightening death spiral. Give or take a few years, we’re all toast, and I’m just putting off the inevitable.  
DIRK: We will break, or else spite and curiosity will eventually run out, failing to drive a plot on their own, and then we will be forgotten. A bunch of defective toys shoved back into the box from where we once came.  
DIRK: There's no sense to it. No feeling, no divine plan, no intertextual lyrical meaning. I can feel my relevance dwindling as we speak.  
DIRK: What’s the point of trying to fix anything then? Why should I worry alone? Why should I give a shit?  
DIRK: I barely know why I’ve came _here._ I shouldn’t _be_ here. This place shouldn’t exist.  
DIRK: And I don't mean this personally, but neither should you.  
DIRK: This is the farthest we could get from an optimal ending. We're a conceptual soup.

Jake slides his hand down your arm, dissolving your grasp in favour of linking your fingertips together. He gives your palm a faint but comforting squeeze, which you interpret as an admission that you're right, to keep your confidence intact. 

DIRK: Plus, this is shaping up to be the shittiest setup to a sequel I’ve ever seen, and I’m from the timeline where we lived through the nightmarish release of all five Avatar movies. That’s how bad it is.  
HARLEY: Say...  
HARLEY: Have you considered gardening?  
DIRK: What?  
HARLEY: I mean exactly what i said. Have you ever given it any thought?  
DIRK: I don’t see how this...  
HARLEY: You dont SEE how this _matters_ in the grand shlak of things. Right i got that i was listening in at that part! Whine whine rant rant nobody understands.  
HARLEY: Oh dont pout now youre a grown man.  
DIRK: I am not "pouting."

That’s a lie. Your face is scrunched up in a manner that can only be described as pouting, but you will be dead before you're caught admitting to it. Jake rolls his eyes for the second time this afternoon, more of an affectionate gesture than anything else.

HARLEY: Oh for sure you arent!!!!  
HARLEY: And ive NEVER fucked a man in my whole life. Didnt dare lay a single indecent pinky on them no sir i said NO THANK YOU and have a GOOD DAY you sultry foxy degenerates!! I am god fearing and law abiding and my virgin soul remains as pure and untarnished as a newborn babes.  
HARLEY: Swear on my horrible old mum!  
DIRK: Fuck you.  
HARLEY: You did too. ;)

Heat blazes up your cheeks as though you’ve been sucking on a handful of burning coals. You quickly avert your gaze, maybe too quickly. You're suddenly acutely aware of the way his thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of your palm, pressing for innuendo.

Holy shit. Was that flirting?

Are we actually unpussying the hell out and making it fucking happen this time? Who would've thought. Turns out all I had to do was humiliate myself enough to warrant a corrective pity fuck.

HARLEY: Here, let me show you my strawberries while youre busy playing shy.  
HARLEY: They look awfully nice this time of the…  
HARLEY: Heh. Just at this particular moment in time i suppose!

You're unable to find a moment to interject, distracted by the delightful tune of his laugh. It's wild sugar melt, the twinkling of a far off star, the rustling of the trees high above shaped like a human sound. You want to kiss it out of his mouth.

Jake leads you far ahead with the firm grip he still has on your hand, no longer strolling but charging, excitedly, towards a translucent building whose look you recognize as a greenhouse. The insides are stuffed with wooden benches holding potted plants, flowers, vegetables, and the spindly green limbs of larger families of flora. It's overwhelming to process in a single glimpse. When your gaze falters, you catch sight of herbs, wild mushrooms, and a pesky ladybug crawling up a growing leek, wings spazzing. Turning your head up, you're met with rows of flowers you can't name. You recognize a fat bush of petunias, as pink as they come, and maybe one of these is a daisy, but you wouldn't know, there were no bouquets at sea. In truth, you don't notice Jake has disappeared until he calls out from somewhere within the rows of plants, and suddenly your hand is adrift, still searching for his in the air, held up by nothing.

HARLEY: BEHOLD!  
HARLEY: These are my latest accomplishments!  
HARLEY: All hand grown you see!!! None of the fancy stuff just plain ol love and a fair bit of fussing over.

That's kind of impressive, you think vaguely, and flashstep in the direction of his voice. Where is he? Tomatoes, carrots, garlic. A flash of salt and pepper hair hiding behind humongous ferns. You almost trip over a planter in your eagerness. Bingo.

DIRK: So is this like a hobby or are you starting a market?

He laughs again. You gravitate to it, finding him bent over a table, plucking bright red strawberries out of potted bushes and gathering them in a plate. Some of the other fruits are still green, whiteish, or growing. Dew drops onto his fingers as he nabs them at the stamen. You sidle up to him cautiously, like you don't intend to interrupt the flow of the work. This close, you could lean your head on his arm if you wanted to. You decide you do want to, because it feels cozy that way.

HARLEY: Im afraid theres not many folks around here to bank for costumers sans you and me.

Good. Less worrying about public indecency charges when the makeouts start.

HARLEY: Though even if there were this isnt the kind of crop you find best pretty at the store.  
HARLEY: Ripe strawberries rot quickly.  
HARLEY: And if you leave these on the plant, it makes the whole lot of em go bad!  
HARLEY: Its like waging a race against nature.  
HARLEY: So the stuff you get wrapped in plastic is cut out of the bush before its really gotten a chance to sweeten like it should. You see the smell?  
DIRK: I think I'd call that an "aroma", but yeah.  
DIRK: It has a nice scent.

God, you can feel his muscles shift under his shirt. You let one of your hands travel across his back, lingering on playfully. It comes to a stop snug around his hip. He responds with a hum, and by letting the arm closest to you envelop around your body in a half-hug, and that sliver of familiar acknowledgement feels like a reward.

It's a nice table you've got there. This one is pretty clean, looks ornamental. Presumably your tea spot? What's the surface in this one, glass? I think it's a better lay than wood. Could see myself spreading on it. Opinions?

As if prompted by your words, Jake shifts, bringing a plump rinsed strawberry up to your face, presenting it like a gift held between his index and his thumb. When you try to guide it with your hand he brushes you off, petulant. The request hangs in the air: he wants you to accept it with your mouth. The heat in your belly kicks into ignition.

You’re.... actually teasing me on purpose, aren’t you, motherfucker?  
I bet you get off on this.

You bite down on the berry, and sweetness coats your tongue. It's a rich fruit, big enough that it takes you some gnawing to have your way with it. The flavor floods your mouth, fresh with a signature tang but none of the expected acidity. It reminds you how you haven't eaten anything much since ascension, neglecting most of your base functions, and you enjoy every second.

DIRK: It’s really good.  
DIRK: But can’t you just like, make a shit ton of these in a flash anyways?  
HARLEY: Well yes i suppose. But i dont see why i should!  
HARLEY: Like i said ripe berries dont last long after theyve matured. You either eat them fast or they rot in the vine.  
HARLEY: Lets say i click my fingers here and make all the buds in this enclosure flourish, all at once.  
HARLEY: How much of it do i get to eat by my lonesome before it degrades and im left slurping worms?  
DIRK: I think you could wipe out a good 20% of the stuff you have in here.  
DIRK: You eat a lot dude.  
DIRK: Might get a little repetitive after the eleventh leek though.  
HARLEY: It would. Better question yet! How much of it would i _enjoy_ eating in these accursed circumstances?  
DIRK: Very little.  
DIRK: I imagine most of it would end up trashed regardless.

He shifts to face you, arm poised around your torso. His back is supported by the table, and you're left basically staring into his chest, hands on each side of him. A second strawberry is generously presented, and this time, when you bite on it, his fingers brush your lip. You're preening with the attention, Jake's eyes set exclusively onto you. They’re as green as the leaves, with a hint of the same wilderness.

HARLEY: Theres no lasting satisfaction in cheating at everything. Being able to rig the world like that spoils a man rotten.  
HARLEY: Its nasty stuff in the end. Makes you feel less… human.  
DIRK: So.  
DIRK: This is supposed to be a practical analogy that tells me everything I want can be achieved through more mundane means, and there’s beauty in the ordinary, isn't it.  
HARLEY: Precisely!  
HARLEY: The best strawberries youll ever taste come from your own homegrown garden a handful at a time. And theyll just keep on coming if you give them time to turn sweet.  
HARLEY: I guess what i mean to say is that… focusing on the big picture for so long makes you lose sight of the small things that matter.  
HARLEY: Of _yourself._  
HARLEY: Thats one of the mistakes i did scrambling to wrap up a lifes work. I forgot the living part. I became a component in the console until it was time they threw me out and replaced the dials with fancy new tech.  
HARLEY: Destiny makes pawns out of all of us.  
HARLEY: But theyre never quite done with me it seems. Im still here waiting for something, whatever that turns out to be.  
HARLEY: I like to think it wasnt too late for me to learn. Its not too late for you either!  
HARLEY: You need to center yourself, moppet. Not as just the means to an end but as a remarkable individual as well. A growing sapling thats one of a kind.  
HARLEY: And learn to quit despairing so far from the finish line while youre at it. Theres hardly a use for that kind of suffering.

 _Remarkable individual._  
That's sweet, I'll admit, but it's a mouthful. I'd let you call me far easier things. Preferably while I'm too boned to think straight and too busy focusing on my own tears. It'll be fun.

Man, we've been talking for so long. I enjoy it, and I’ve missed you, but let's be frank; I really miss your dick. I bet we can multitask. I know, I know, you contain multitudes, I contain multitudes as well, but I see how you're touching me. How you're looking at me. You want this as much as I do, but you insist on playing nice. Your hand is inches away from my ass, it would be so easy to just go for it. What else do you need? A green light? Smoke signals? Note of informed consent? Do you need me to get on my knees and beg? Fuck me. We can make a smooth segue into a sex scene and incorporate as many gardening metaphors as you want. You can feed me more of these if you’d like. You know, I've seen something similar to this once. But we had some sort of riding gear involved, maybe a crop? It was definitely horse themed. Could've been a fun punishment scene. Oh, oh, no, better yet, just listen to this: a _training_ scene.

You have a feeling you may be losing yourself in this subplot. Jake cups your face to bring you back, and does it with such eerie timing you wonder if he hasn't been furtively listening to your babbling.

Wait a second, have you? 

He taps your cheek for attention.

HARLEY: You asked me how to make your routine feel less pointless and well here it is.  
HARLEY: This is how ive found focus. Grounding, honest work.  
HARLEY: Find something to care about and make an effort to nurture it. Watch it grow nice and strong!  
DIRK: I've got plenty of things to care about.  
HARLEY: No, i dont reckon you do.  
DIRK: I'm sorry, what?  
HARLEY: You have a mighty pile of crap to worry about. Work to do. Papers to fill. As do most of us.  
HARLEY: But you sorely lack in drive, young man. Rage burns fiercely bright and just as fast.  
HARLEY: Faith, in another hand! Oh faith… is a wonderful, tricky little asshole.  
HARLEY: Hope can outlive the heat death of the universe, you see. Belief can fuel up the sun.  
HARLEY: It all depends on whether you can learn to harness it for yourself or if youd rather remain trapped, fighting against your own manmade bondage.  
HARLEY: The mind can be a treacherous prison, dirk.

I want you to pump me full of cum. I want you to pump me full of cum. I want you to pump me full of cum. I want you to pump me full of cum. Do you hear me? You can see it in my eyes. You can feel the heat pheromone signature just oozing out of me. Come on, pretty please. Bend me over a table. Rub my face into the dirt.

Jake appreciatively takes hold of your chin, looking for something in your face. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and this time he means it, tracing the shape of you. Your breath hitches.

Stick your fingers in my mouth. Make me open up for you.

DIRK: Hey…  
DIRK: Kiss me.

His eyebrows pinch in conflicting amusement, and he laughs, another mirthful sound.

HARLEY: I think we might be on different pages here lad.  
DIRK: Really? I think that's a non-issue.  
DIRK: I'm a proficient reader. Voracious, really. Just lapping up prose left and right like it's a miracle elixir. Like my life depends on it. Can't get enough of the stuff.  
DIRK: Where's your bookmark?

You part your mouth to let his thumb in, and he doesn’t pull away. Not a flinch, not even when you pull it inside and taste it with your tongue. Jake regards your gesture with the patience of a pet owner. You let your teeth come to a rest atop his knuckle like a polite little pony, waiting for instruction. The world is closing in, and nothing else matters. Not the ruffle of feathers or the sound of distant falling water or the scent of a thousand flowers, just him. You can feel his face leaning in slightly, the shift on his posture, the tightening of the arm embracing your torso. He tips your chin upwards. Your chest hammers, your eyes flutter shut.

Holy mother of god. I'm seconds away from ripping all my clothes off. You could do anything to me. I'm yours. Take it. Teach me. Guide me. School me until I'm a slobbering wreck.

Ugh. Deplorable. I thought Rose was the one with the Legendary Milf Chasing Complex. I'm not generally into old men. What the fuck am I doing. You should be so fucking proud of this, you conniving piece of shit. This is all your fault, Jake. You made me into this. My brain-to-pussy random response is rolling like a loaded slot machine. If you stick your hands in my pants right now, you're going to get swallowed up by the colossal whirlpool and adjacent tentacle-god that's breached between my legs. I could take like, a thousand fucking cocks.

Jake rests his forehead next to yours, withdrawing the hand on your face to hug you with. It’s depressingly affectionate, riddled with softness. You let out an embarrassing whine.

HARLEY: Im flattered by your intentions, pumpkin.  
HARLEY: But… well, *ahem* i have to put my money where my mouth is.  
HARLEY: Youre still too green for me.  
HARLEY: Its just not proper you know how.  
DIRK: Fuck you and your sweet, caring gallantry.  
HARLEY: I miss him too.  
HARLEY: You were always very bright, I knew youd understand.  
DIRK: Don't patronize me.  
HARLEY: Perhaps dont be so easy to patronize.

You shoot him a glare. He can feel the upset twist of your brows, and huffs with good humour, smothering it with a kiss.

HARLEY: Yup. That right there are your roots jutting out all raw and bloody and barely scabbed over!  
HARLEY: Impressive spoilwork for a young man.  
DIRK: Haha. I get it. I'm baby.  
DIRK: Point and laugh.  
DIRK: Want to rub it in any further? Maybe try a saline solution to coat the welts?  
HARLEY: No such thing, love.  
HARLEY: I want you to take the bloody proposition home and have a good think about it.  
DIRK: On what? Life, love, and philosophy?  
HARLEY: Not quite.  
HARLEY: But i believe you can start with a few choice texts about soil and things. Synthetic photosynthesis, mutated lifespans maybe. Theyre of mighty practical use in a non-conventional garden.  
HARLEY: And you of course. Even the moodiest of orchids grows towards something.  
HARLEY: What exactly is it that youre chasing after?  
HARLEY: What keeps you grounded where you are?  
HARLEY: Questions, questions.

More than one of these queries could be answered with "you", but you keep quiet.

It would be futile to pretend you're the one I want to say it to.

You penitently stare at your feet. You didn't have a chance to notice it before, but the ground is emblazoned with a small diamond pattern of SNs, the Skaianet insignia. You can’t seem to escape it, even inside your own ship.

HARLEY: I care about you, it is simple as that. I want to see you grow.  
HARLEY: Here, a gift.  
HARLEY: This will get you started out easy enough and if you like it you can branch off from there.

One of his deft hands slips something into your back pocket. It's sturdy, square, and thin. You’d ask what it is, but you have a feeling it could only be a captchalogue card. Fucker is buying you off. You bury your face deep into his chest as a reply. If you put in enough effort, wrap your arms around him tight enough, you think—you hope you can commit this feeling to memory and carry it back to the ship, safely with you.

DIRK: Thanks.  
HARLEY: Just promise me youll think about it, dirk?  
DIRK: I think…  
DIRK: I think I'll try.


End file.
